My hands are virulent, my hearts are yours
by Yuki no yami
Summary: When he was a boy, Carlos found an old well. When he was a boy, his father died. Now, as an adult, he has found his way to Night Vale, where a strange man who seems to know everything about him lives. What does he want, and will Carlos live to find out? (crossposted on wattpad)


It was a cloudy day. The dew clinging heavy to the grass and leaves of the trees that loomed high over the form of the young boy who had run into the forest earlier in the hour. The only sound that could be heard were the quiet breaths and cautious steps of the child as he walked further and further.

Once, and only once, the boy tripped and fell. He caught himself on his hands and bit his lip as his eyes watered, but he swallowed down his distress and rose to his feet, picking up the glasses that had fallen from his face and wiping his now torn palms on his secondhand shorts, giving himself a second to rest before persisting onwards.

The boys eyes darted back and forth, searching the green as he pushed branches and wet leaves away. His torn shoes scraped against rocks and roots, and the dark clouds in the sky seemed to descend around him to wrap themselves around his feet and obscured the path.

Finally, after an unknown period of time, his brown eyes locked on a spot of colour in the monotonous green. Recognition followed by delight lit his face as he pushed his way through the undergrowth towards the bloom.

He crouched down next to the flowers in the damp brush and gently observed it. Then the boy reached into his pocket to remove the small scrap of paper he had taken with him on his adventure.

The diagram matched, he had found it! Excited, the boy set his hands down by the low-growing plants to pick the small, quarter sized flower. He plucked a couple of them, cradling their 3 petals close to his chest as he picked himself back up off of the ground and turned back the way he came.

The woods around him darkened his path and the mist loomed, he walked the way he believed he had come, but the path that he had previously created did not appear before him.

Nervously, the boy removed his glasses with one hand, rubbing them against his shirt awkwardly to remove some of the condensation that had built up on them. When he replaced them, he noticed a branch that looked like it had been snapped a short distance ahead of him.

He moved in the direction of the branch, the world still silent around him saved for his muffled steps and anxious breaths. The snapped branch lead him to see a pathway of trampled leaves that he followed slowly.

The sky above him, as concealed as it was, darkened. He heard the faint rumble of thunder and jolted, before increasing his pace in a panic.

The hand clutching the flowers close to his chest tightened as he picked his way through the woods, and his palms stung and tore further as he pushed branches and thorns out of the way.

Another loud crack of thunder issued over head, and then the rain fell. The young boy scrambled onwards down the path he had found as the trees closed in on him and the woods grew darker and darker. The cold air and colder rain pelted his body as he pressed onwards, until finally the path grew to slick and he fell a second time.

This time the boy rose slowly, and didn't fight back the tears that swelled in his eyes. He sniffled and drew his arms tighter to his chest, holding the crushed and muddies petals that were once flowers to his chest. His glasses had fallen off to the side and as he groped blindly in the downpour he whimpered. Eventually his hands met metal and he pulled the thankfully uncracked glasses back to his kneeling form, donning them slowly with bleeding hands that left a red smudge across the lenses.

He staggered to his feet before continuing slowly through the forest, down what he was increasingly unsure was a path home. His scraped and bleeding body leaving a faint trail of blood that was washed away immediately by the rain. His footsteps slowed as a shape in the dark started to coalesce and his wimpers of pain transformed into ones of relief as he saw structure forming a short ways in front of him.

The old well was crumbling, but, to the boys surprise, dry. He easily climbed down into the well, hissing in pain as he grabbed rocks with his free hand. At the bottom there was a puddle collecting rain, and a tunnel leading back a short way.

He walked back towards the dry stone, seeking shelter, uncaring as his footsteps broke a line of salt and crushed a piece of iron that had become frail after an age of neglect. He sunk to the ground and curled up on the floor, and quickly fell into a deep sleep.

In the morning, the boy awoke, crushed blooms still held tight to his chest, and sat up, aches and scrapes faded, feeling energized and more prepared to leave the forest. He stepped around the water filling the bottom of the well, and climbed back out with an ease that he didn't possess before.

In the forest the rain had given way to bright sun that lit the path clearly, and the boy walked onwards, with clear eyes and foggy thoughts, following a forgin trail through the forest until he reached the edge and walked back into familiar territory. After a moment, the fog lifted and the boy, to young to care about whatever had just happened seconds prior, ran for home.

Outside his door, he calmed himself, wiping down his glasses and attempting to straighten out his appearance before slowly cracking open his door as silently as possible. He tentatively stepped inside, listening intently for any signs of life, as he crept forward, shouting the door behind him as quietly as he could and holding his breath to hide his presence for as long as possible.

He stepped through the hallways of the house towards the stairs, flinching at the sound of canned laughter that echoed through the house from the den where his father was surely lurking. The houses walls were bare and imposing and, to the boy, impossibly large. His stepped on the carpet when possible, and once he reached the staircase, bolted up as quickly as possible, abandoning stealth altogether.

The shouts of his father boomed through the house as he was alerted to the boys presence. Loud, pounding, angry footsteps came alongside his quick desperate ones as the boy fled up and into his room.

"CARLOS" the man roared as the boy frantically slammed the door shut behind him, "CARLOS, MIERDA INÚTIL, GET DOWN HERE!" He ignored his father's anger and crawled under his bed, the only place he couldn't reach him. The boy held his breath as the footsteps halted in front of his door, and then his breath escaped in an involuntary wimped as the door cracked open, slamming into the wall and knocking several textbooks onto the floor. From his position under the bed the boy could see his father's shoes as they stalked into his room. The boy pressed his free hand against his mouth to muffle his involuntary whimpers as his father fell silent, listening. Finally, after a moment that felt like an eternity, his father snarled under his breath and spun around, exiting the room and shutting the door with a loud bang.

"Te matare Carlos. You hear me? ESTÁS MUERTO" His father growled as he walked down the hall, opening and shutting doors as he went.

The boy removed his hand from his mouth, and he shuddered with fear, his eyes shut tightly, he curled up tighter and tighter as he listened to his father stomp and curse, searching for him, before he gave up and returned downstairs, grumbling.

He waited until his breathing evened out, then he waited for the sounds of television to reach him. Once he heard the sound of laughter he uncurled himself slowly, before slinking out from underneath his bed.

The boy glanced around his room, eyes catching on the books and tools laid out across his desk, counting the hammers and stones, before reaching out towards the fallen books by the wall. The various scientific textbooks he collected before hurriedly placing them back in their respective places were above the average preteens reading level, but the boy always knew that he would one day be a great scientist, and made sure to learn everything he could whenever he could. Which is why he had entered the forest in the first place.

Placing the last of his books on the shelf, he turned towards his table, a quiet excitement brewing underneath the fear. He uncurled his fist from his chest and dumped the crushed petals on the surface of the table. He eyed the plants with a critical eye before pulling out his microscope and glass slides. He cut off a portion of the flower before examining it through the lens. He inhaled sharply, viewing the strange and shifting cells beneath him for only a moment before pulling out his journal to document the fantastic results! He eagerly watched as the cells broke down and decayed much faster than they should, and was so preoccupied he didn't notice the whole pile rotting beside him. After a few moments the cells had decayed completely, and the boy lifted his head to notice at last the pile of mulch that had been his much coveted flowers just a minute before.

The boy felt an excitement inside him as he stared at what once were flowers, he had never seen or heard of anything like this! When he had gotten the letter in the mail asking him to test the plants nearby, addressed to his father, he hadn't imagined anything like this!

And so the boy spent the rest of the day in a quiet flurry. He spent hours writing his response letter, he spent hours documenting his findings and writing theories. And he spent tense minutes hiding underneath his bed when he stepped on the floor to hard in his excited pacing.

When night fell, he worked until he could barely keep his eyes open. He eyes the clock on the wall, before deciding it was safe to go to sleep. He set his journal under the bed, as far against the wall as possible, before climbing into bed and pulling the covers up to his shoulders.

That night he dreamt of interlocking shapes and decaying cells, and interlocking cells and decaying shapes, and decaying, interlocking, decaying he decayed and he interlocked with a shape with someone who was making him decay his cells were decaying his cells were interlocking with the shape and

He woke up with the faintest sense of distress, but before he could recall his dream it slipped away from him.

The boy rolled over to look at the clock, before his eyes widened and his breath caught in his chest. It was noon. It was noon! He shot up and hurriedly untangled himself from his blankets, he thought about getting changed when he saw his filthy clothes but decided against it, when he caught a second glimpse of the ominous clock.

He opened his door and stepped down into the hallway, before hurrying down the stairs, his father always wanted breakfast made before he woke up, and usually that wasn't a problem. But his father woke up around noon. And as the boy darted through the house to the kitchen, he ran through the recipes he could make.

Toast, eggs, cold sandwich.

...a beer.

And with that final thought he arrived in the kitchen, and pulled open the fridge, eggs, check. He pulled two out of their container and set them on the counter, ignoring the smear of dirt he left on their shells.

Next, he turned to the breadbox, cracking it open to find a loaf of stale bread. Picking it up, he turned to the toaster and popped two of them in. Then he turned to the stove.

Ducking down he opened the compartment at the bottom where the pans were stored. He pulled a slightly grungy looking pan out and set it on the stove. Turning on the burner, he grabbed the eggs and cracked them open into the pan.

The whole time he was cooking, he kept an ear trained in the direction of the living room. He could hear the television going, but nothing else. Hopefully, that meant his father was still asleep.

He finished breakfast with practiced ease, placing the fried eggs on a plate with the toast then finally reaching into the fridge to grab a can of beer. He walked intently towards the living room, trying to convince himself his father hadn't awakened yet, even though he had never, in recent memory, slept past 12:10.

The boy pushed open the door slowly, and watched the light cast by the tv dance over his father's resting form. With a sigh of relief he stepped into the room, plate in hand, and was hit with a scent of rotting.

Carlos gagged, but persisted. Stepping closer, closer, then in front of the tv to put the plate on the table to the side of his father. Once he saw the front of the figure bathed in the staticky light, he dropped the plate and screamed, fainting in a few moments.

The man was only human looking from the sides, but from head on you could see that nearly all of his body had decayed into mulch. The skin had split open and the dark decay was spilling out like a bag split down the seem. His head was hollowed out like a bowl, and sprouting from the area where his face had once been, were familiar flowers. 3 petals, white, pink.

Painted Trillium.


End file.
